


When Everything Seems Like the Movies

by Mireille



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Community: maleslashminis, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-26
Updated: 2007-12-26
Packaged: 2019-03-18 02:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: When a bank robber decides to use him as a getaway driver, Xander Harris finds the excitement his life had been lacking. (Contemporary, all-human, AU)





	1. Chapter 1

  
Sometimes, it sucked to be car-guy. It definitely sucked to be car-guy with no life, at least when your friends knew about the no-life-having, because it meant that when one of them needed someone to pick up her kid sister from the dentist's office after her 8:00 AM appointment and get her to school before she missed all of her history class, you were automatically it. Never mind that this was a rare weekday off--the next job your crew was doing didn't start until Monday--and you might have had plans. You might even have had a hot date the night before, one you were hoping would last until breakfast the next morning.  
  
When Xander had tried that argument, though, Buffy had just said, "But you don't, do you? Please, Xander, if Dawn misses first period again she's going to flunk, and if she flunks, I'm going to have social services coming out here  _again_ , and--"  
  
"Hey, I didn't say I wasn't going to do it," Xander had told her, because for one thing, he wasn't going to leave Buffy hanging like that, not when she was already trying so hard to raise Dawn after her mom had died and her dad had completely flaked out on them.  
  
For another, it wasn't like he really did have a hot date. Or a lukewarm date. At this point, he'd settle for a cold date, because he was twenty-two years old and his life had already become completely boring, even when he wasn't parked downtown at 9:00 AM, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and waiting for Dawn to come out of the dentist's.  
  
He was staring blankly into space when he heard the passenger door open. "It's about time," Xander said. "We're going to have to hurry to get you to--" And then he realized that whoever had just slid into the passenger seat of his car, it wasn't Dawn. Dawn was a teenaged girl with long brown hair. This was... well, he wasn't a girl, for one thing, and he had bleached-blond hair, and-- "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Xander said, just as the guy shouted, "Start driving!"  
  
Xander turned around to get a better look at the insane person who'd just jumped into his car. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, because he wasn't listening to a crazy person, but then three things dawned on him that made him think Crazy Guy wasn't actually the crazy one in this conversation: one, what he'd thought was a car alarm going off in the distance was actually much louder and was now accompanied by sirens--far away, but getting louder; two, there was a big gym bag at the guy's feet, only partly zipped and stuffed with what looked like it might be cash; and three, there was a gun jammed into the waistband of Crazy Guy's pants.  
  
 _Oh, fuck_ , Xander thought, and then decided it was worth saying out loud. "Oh, fuck," he said. "You're-- you just--" He stopped himself before he said,  _robbed the bank around the corner_ , because he figured the guy probably knew that already.  
  
"Just head for highway 101," Crazy Bank Robber Guy said. "And  _shut up_ , if you know what's good for you." Then he turned around, kneeling in the seat so that he could reach into the back. The position gave Xander a better view of the guy's gun, so when he said, "Drive!" again, Xander shut up and started driving. He'd read enough thrillers to know that no matter how tempting it was to speed, the cops were less likely to notice you if you were driving like a normal person, so he kept it five miles over the speed limit and tried to not pay attention to what C.B.R.G.--it was shorter than "Crazy Bank Robber Guy"--was doing in the backseat.  
  
Turned out, he was digging out the long-sleeved shirt Xander had thrown back there a few days ago when he'd spilled coffee on it; he'd meant to bring it inside to wash it, but he'd forgotten. And he'd failed to notice that the coffee had soaked through to his t-shirt, either, so he'd still had to go around looking like a klutz. C.B.R.G. didn't seem to mind the coffee stain, though; he peeled off his jacket and put the shirt on over his own, buttoning it up, and then put Xander's hard hat--also riding in the back seat, since he only needed it at work--on.  
  
"Oh, my God," Xander said, and honestly, he was going to see a doctor about this tendency of his to run off at the mouth in situations where that was a really, really bad idea--"I'm the getaway driver for one of the Village People."  
  
C.B.R.G. snorted. "It's your hat," he said, and Xander realized that he sounded English. Not English like Willow's  _Pride and Prejudice_  DVDs; this guy's voice was rough and dangerous and might even be sexy if he didn't have a gun and a bag of stolen money--or maybe even if he did--but it was definitely English.  
  
"Yeah, but when I wear it, it's a safety precaution, not a fashion statement." Oh, God. He needed to shut up before he got seriously dead. At least he probably wouldn't get shot while he was driving. And the guy didn't seem too eager to go waving the gun at him, either, so it probably wouldn't go off by accident. Really, all the guy was doing was slouching down in the passenger seat with the hard hat pulled down low on his forehead. The gun made it scary, but not in the "Oh, God, I'm going to die right now," sense.  
  
There might even be a chance that he wouldn't have to die at all. "Look," Xander said. "You want the car? You can have the car. I don't need it. Just let me pull over somewhere, and I'll get out. I won't even report the car stolen until tomorrow morning, I swear."  
  
The guy seemed to be thinking about it for a second, but then he shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "See, this way I have a hostage. The cops might get a little over-excited if it's just me, but they're not going to risk shooting an innocent victim." He grinned at Xander. It didn't look as demented as Xander had thought it would. "Looks like we're in this for the long haul."  
  
Xander glanced in the rear-view mirror, surprised that he didn't see flashing lights behind him. He wondered where the police were. When somebody had broken into his apartment and stolen his stereo, he'd been willing to accept that the cops had better things to do than to track down a petty criminal, but this guy had robbed a bank. Surely that was serious enough to justify doing something about it?  
  
He was going to have to believe that Sunnydale's finest would find them sooner or later. Until then, his best chance of staying alive seemed like doing what this guy said. Speaking of which--"Hey, what's your name?" he asked.  
  
The guy rolled his eyes. "We're not having tea, you stupid wanker. I'm holding you hostage."  
  
"I can't just keep calling you 'crazy bank robber guy.'"  
  
"Crazy bank robber guy?" he repeated, and Xander reminded himself again that pissing off the guy with the gun was a bad idea. Maybe he wanted more excitement in his life, but being shot full of holes wasn't the kind he wanted.  
  
"I have to call you something," he said. "And, uh. I'm Xander."  
  
"Spike," the guy said, and now it was Xander's turn to roll his eyes.  
  
"Your mom named you  _Spike_?"  
  
"No. Would you just drive and stop asking stupid questions?"  
  
"Driving," Xander said, because Crazy Bank Robber Guy might have a name--if you called "Spike" a name for anyone but a dog, which Xander didn't--but he was still crazy.

***

  
  
They were just outside the city limits when Xander's phone rang. He picked it up without thinking about it, just about to hit the Talk button when Spike grabbed it out of his hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, rolling down the window and throwing the phone out onto the highway.  
  
"Hey, I still have two years left on my contract for that thing!" Xander protested.  
  
Spike rolled the window back up. "You really don't get the situation here, do you? You. Are. A. Hostage. That means you don't get to take phone calls, you don't get to ask me if you can get out of the car, and we're not making polite conversation. You are the bloke driving the car, and I am the one with a gun and a bag full of money. Get it?"  
  
"Got it," Xander said meekly.  
  
"All right, then." Spike slouched down further in his seat. "Keep driving."  
  
Xander kept driving, but a glance at the dashboard revealed that they were about to have a problem. "Uh, Spike?" he said. "I know you said I don't get to ask if I can get out of the car, and I want you to understand that I totally respect your authority in this situation--" Okay, little lie there; what he respected was the gun-- "but we're going to have to stop soon."  
  
Spike snorted. "You do get that I don't care if you piss your pants, right? Just as long as I get a long way away from Sunnydale."  
  
"And this would be why you should have carjacked a guy who had more than an eighth of a tank of gas in his car. Check the gauge for yourself if you don't believe me." In hindsight, he should have been prepared for Spike to do just that, but instead, he was surprised to find Spike sliding over into his personal space. He was more surprised to find that it didn't bother him all that much. "See?" he said, waving toward the gas gauge. "Before we get stranded out in the middle of nowhere, I need to fill the tank."  
  
"Fine," Spike said. "But if you think this is your chance to try anything funny--"  
  
"Who, me? Not even a chuckle out of me, I promise." He might not be the best hostage ever, but if there was a chance he was going to get out of this alive, he didn't want to do anything to jeopardize it.  
  
When he pulled up at the gas station, he turned off the car and looked over at Spike. "How do you want to do this?"  
  
"Get out and pump the gas." Spike got out too, going over to Xander's side of the car and leaning against it. Xander was finding it harder than it looked to pump gas with someone watching him so carefully; even if he couldn't see the gun now, he knew it was there. He fumbled with the gas cap, but finally managed to get the nozzle in the tank.  
  
"You don't have to watch me," Xander said. "I'm not going anywhere."  
  
"I know you're not." If they'd been in a movie, Spike's hand would have rested significantly on his hip, next to the gun Xander knew was there, hidden by the too-large shirt. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and just watched Xander.  
  
He didn't even bother telling Spike he didn't have to follow him into the store to pay; he just walked slowly enough that Spike knew he wasn't trying to run away. "Stay close to me," Spike ordered him, and Xander did. He looked over at the cashier a few times, wondering if he could mouth "Call 911" clearly enough that the guy could understand him, but decided against it. He'd seen movies. That was a good way to get somebody killed. He'd just go along with Spike until the police figured out where they were, and then he'd be rescued.  
  
Spike picked up a baseball cap that said,  _I don't have a drinking problem. I drink, I get drunk, I fall down, no problem!_  and handed it to Xander. "Get that, too," he said. "I'm tired of wearing this bloody hard hat."  
  
"What do you mean, 'get that'? You're the one who--um. Can afford it."  
  
"It's your car," Spike said, shrugging. "Oh, and a carton of Marlboro Reds. And a hot dog."  
  
He was buying smokes and brunch for the guy holding him hostage. He'd thought his life could not possibly sink lower than the last blind date he'd been on, but apparently, he was wrong.  
  
This was going to teach him not to complain that his life was boring.

***

  
This was the longest he'd ever ridden in a car without anyone talking, he thought. The previous record had been the Harris Family Vacation, 1988, in which his parents had gone forty-five minutes without speaking. And okay, maybe trying to strike up a conversation with the guy holding him hostage was a bad idea, but then again, if Spike learned to appreciate Xander as a human being, then maybe he'd find it a lot harder to damage and/or kill Xander, when the time came.  
  
"So," Xander said, "explain to me how you could plan this bank robbery well enough that you got away with the money, but you forgot to find a getaway driver."  
  
Spike shot him a withering look. Xander wished he could find a tactful way to tell the guy that those weren't the best idea. They reminded him way too much of his high school girlfriend, back before he'd figured out that he wasn't just a little gay, he was really most sincerely gay. It wasn't like Cordy was a painful memory, exactly; it was that those scornful looks she'd given him were what had gotten him over the hurdle of "she's a girl!" in the first place, and he was afraid that it was going to get him over the possibly bigger hurdle of "he's a  _bank robber_!," too.  
  
"I didn't forget."  
  
"Then what happened?"  
  
There was another of those completely disgusted looks. "I don't know what you're expecting, but this isn't some wacky car-chase movie. You're not Thelma, I'm not Louise, and we're not going to bond as we drive across America."  
  
The first thing that Xander could think to say was, "I'm not driving over a cliff for you."  
  
"Not asking you to," Spike said, slouching down in the seat. The baseball cap didn't look much less ridiculous than the hard hat had, but at least it didn't look as weird for someone to be riding around in a car wearing it.  
  
Despite all evidence to the contrary--like the past twenty years--Xander did know how to take a hint, and he concentrated on the road for a while. He didn't actually know where they were going; Spike gave him directions from time to time, but he hadn't said anything about their destination. All Xander knew was that they were heading east.  
  
If this had been one of those wacky car-chase movies, Xander thought, they'd have headed south to Mexico. He thought about mentioning that to Spike, but decided that the last thing he needed to do was  _help_  the scary bank-robber man.  
  


***

  
  
"I had a driver."  
  
Considering that was the first thing Spike had said to him that wasn't a complaint about his driving, his car, or the shirt he'd taken from the backseat, it took Xander a few seconds to actually process that. "So you said," he said finally, not asking what happened to "we're not going to bond." "And yet, here you are in my car. I take it you didn't have a  _reliable_  driver?" Xander, himself, was very reliable. He was pretty sure that if Buffy or Willow had needed a getaway driver, Xander would have been the first person they thought to call.  
  
"He was there. I just didn't get in the car." Spike lit up another cigarette--he technically wasn't chain-smoking, because he was lighting each of them with a flick of his lighter, but since he lit a new one as soon as he stubbed the old one out, the distinction was only technical. Xander had thought about mentioning his no-smoking-in-the-car rule, which up until this point had been largely theoretical, but decided that was the kind of thing that could make what, as hostage situations went, had been relatively pleasant so far turn ugly fast.  
  
"I get it," Xander said. "He was a decoy, right? The cops would recognize him, or know he was acting suspiciously, and then when you didn't get in the car--"  
  
"No, he wasn't a bloody decoy," Spike muttered, and he didn't have to say "you fucking moron" for Xander to know it was there all the same. "I just couldn't do it." He shrugged. "He's my brother. Idiot wanted to help me, and I was stupid enough to let him, but I couldn't do it. If something went wrong--Connor's not going to prison because of me."  
  
"You have a brother?"  
  
"Half. Different mums, same useless lunk of a father."  
  
And again with the not pointing out they seemed to be bonding. "And you didn't get in the car with him because you didn't want to wreck his future." Not that Xander actually cared, because the guy he was talking to was a chain-smoking  _bank robber_. Since Spike didn't seem to be showing signs of wanting to shoot Xander, or wanting to beat the hell out of him and leave him for dead by the side of the road, either, he didn't have to try to gain Spike's sympathy.  
  
Also, any thoughts he might have had about the potential hotness that might be Spike were completely stifled by the fact that he was, as Xander had just pointed out, a bank robber who was  _holding him hostage_. And God, Xander had thought that the thing he'd had for bad girls (and girls like Cordelia, who might not have been bad, but who had been scary anyway) was just  _girls_ , had just been his subconscious steering him away from the female of the species. Apparently not, because the "bank robber holding me hostage" thing was. It was.  
  
Well, okay, it was utterly terrifying, but now that he didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, it also made Spike seem kind of hot. And, apparently, made Xander want to continue talking to him.  
  
Spike shrugged again. "Something like that."  
  
"But it's completely okay to fuck up some other kid's future?" Xander asked, because he'd been worrying about that in the back of his mind, more than what was going to happen to him; if Dawn flunked history, and social services decided Buffy wasn't a suitable guardian for her... it was going to kill Buffy. And Xander and Willow, too; Dawn was practically  _their_  little sister as well as Buffy's.  
  
They'd have to go to plan B, he thought, and he didn't want to go to plan B. Plan B was him moving into the Summers house, pretending to be Buffy's Very Heterosexual And Also Responsible Fiancé, and if that didn't get the social workers off Buffy's back, he had a horrible sick fear that he was going to wind up proposing that they get married for Dawn's sake. Which wouldn't be fair to Buffy, and wouldn't be fair to him, but sometimes you had to do things that sucked.  
  
Like drive across California with a bank robber who was wearing one of your favorite shirts.  
  
"You're not a kid," Spike said. "A kid wouldn't have a beer gut like that."  
  
"Hey!" Xander said. "I don't have a beer gut." For one thing, there really hadn't been beer involved. Pizza and Cheetos, yes, but no beer. For another, it wasn't a  _gut_. And so what if he didn't have a six-pack? There were guys who actually  _preferred_  their men to do something other than go to the gym. Okay, there hadn't been many in Xander's life lately, but that was none of Spike's business.  
  
It also wasn't the point. "I'm not talking about me," Xander said. "Know why I was sitting in my car in the first place? I was waiting to pick up a friend--well, a friend's sister--so she could get to school before first period was over, so she didn't flunk and maybe get put into foster care." He kept driving, kept glancing back in the rear-view mirror and hoping for flashing lights in the distance, but he took a second to look over and glare at Spike. "So forgive me if I don't give a crap about your stupid brother, who  _wanted_  to help you commit a felony."  
  
"I don't care about your girlfriend or her sister," Spike said, leaning forward to turn on the radio.  
  
"She's not my girlfriend," Xander said, even though seriously, he reminded himself, it didn't matter. This wasn't a guy he was talking to at Starbucks; this was the lunatic who had taken him hostage and forced him into a life of crime.  
  
Well, if by "forced," Xander meant, "told him to drive." There hadn't been all that much forcing, or even an actual threat, involved so far. Apparently, Xander really was that much of a wuss.  
  
"Don't care," Spike said. "Now shut up, I want to hear this."  
  
"This" turned out to be a news report, and Xander fell silent, listening as well. "And our top story this morning is the First Sunnydale Bank robbery," the announcer said. Xander glanced in the rear-view mirror again. The police had to be on their trail by now. "Police have been interviewing witnesses, and have released a description of the bank robber. He is male, Caucasian, below average height--"  
  
"Below average, my arse," Spike grumbled. "Just because I'm not a bloody giant..." He subsided as the report went on.  
  
"--made difficult because he was wearing a ski mask. However, some witnesses reported that he spoke with a British accent. His current whereabouts are unknown, but he is believed to be armed and--"  
  
Spike turned the radio off again, grinning triumphantly. "Can't believe they don't have a clue," he said.  
  
"Ski mask?" Xander said.  
  
Spike reached down and picked up a navy-blue knitted cap from the floor. "I wasn't going to leave it on in the car," he pointed out. "Those or the gloves. If you'd run a stop sign and got pulled over, it would have been a dead giveaway, wouldn't it?" He was talking slowly and carefully, like he was talking to a little kid or an idiot, and Xander scowled. Like he was an expert on committing federal crimes, or even wanted to be.  
  
The key thing, though, was that nobody had any idea that Spike had jumped in Xander's car. Nobody knew what Spike looked like. Nobody knew Xander had been taken hostage. They could be halfway across the country before anybody realized anything was wrong.  
  
He was so screwed.  
  


***

  
  
"People are going to think I'm some kind of pervert," Xander said. "You seriously want me to hang out in here the whole time?" "Here" was the bathroom of the International House of Pancakes, somewhere near the Arizona border; that was freaking Xander out a little, because didn't it become serious kidnapping when you crossed state lines? He didn't want to be seriously kidnapped.  
  
He also didn't want to be standing in here, keeping an eye on the door while Spike washed his hair in the bathroom sink and then applied a bottle of cheap dye to it. Xander's best friends weren't girls for nothing; he was pretty sure that whatever Spike did on top of the bleach that was already there was going to look like crap, but that wasn't his problem.  
  
No, that wasn't accurate. He wasn't just keeping an eye on the door. He was also holding Spike's shirts--both the one he'd been wearing when he jumped into the car and the one he'd stolen from Xander--and the K-Mart bag that held the clothes Spike had made him buy.  
  
Spike gave him a wicked grin. "Oh, not in here, mate. Wouldn't want you slipping away while my back was turned." Spike stood up, grabbing a paper towel and wiping dye from his forehead, and then gestured toward the open door of the wheelchair stall. "You're waiting in there with me."  
  
"What?" Xander yelped. "Oh, no. No way." He was wrong. He wasn't in some crime caper flick. He was in  _bad porn_ , trapped in a bathroom stall with a sexy and dangerous criminal, forced to wait twenty minutes while the Clairol soaked in.  
  
"Inside," Spike said. "And sit down. I want to be between you and the door."  
  
Xander grimaced, but he did what Spike told him. Spike followed him into the stall, bolting the door and then leaning back against it, one knee drawn up. And people were  _so_  going to think Xander was a complete pervert, he thought, because they were going to be able to see that there were two sets of feet. Maybe if they were quiet, nobody would look. After all, most guys made a real effort  _not_  to notice anything was going on in the bathroom.  
  
"If they notice the extra feet," Xander said, "they're going to think we're in here having sex." Spike just smirked at that. "If they don't, and they notice how long I've been in here, they're going to think I really shouldn't have ordered those pancakes." Not that they were actually stopping here to eat. It was just the first place Spike had noticed that would have a bathroom big enough for his plan. The gas station nearby had been ruled out when Spike discovered you had to ask for the key; apparently, he didn't want anybody to notice him until after he'd finished his brilliant disguise.  
  
There was silence for a few minutes, which Xander's brain apparently interpreted as a cue to start babbling like a moron. "You know, there are some gay stereotypes I work  _hard_  to avoid, and the 'sleazy sex in a public restroom' one is definitely one of them." Then he winced. He'd just come out to his kidnapper. So now, in addition to being shot in a police raid or killed because he was a liability, there was also the chance of being gay-bashed by an armed felon.  
  
This was not Xander's day in the slightest.  
  
But Spike just smirked again, looking Xander up and down. "Yeah. Can see you've avoided the whole 'well-groomed' thing."  
  
"It was  _my day off_ ," Xander muttered. He'd planned to drop Dawn off at the high school and then go back home to catch a few hours' sleep. He hadn't worried about what he looked like. "I forgot to plan for being held at gunpoint."  
  
"Some people can shave even without the threat of a bullet," Spike said.  
  
"Some people can get through a day without committing armed robbery, too." Yet another time when he really needed to learn to shut the hell up, he thought, but Spike seemed to think it was funny.  
  
At least he'd been kidnapped by a guy with a sense of humor.  
  


***

  
  
"You didn't mention what you thought of the new look," Spike said once they were back in the car.  
  
"That would be because it's stupid to insult the guy holding you hostage," Xander said. It was true, Spike didn't look anything like the guy who'd jumped into Xander's car that morning. The boots, black jeans and tight white t-shirt were gone, replaced by baggy khakis, a Hawaiian shirt, and cheap K-Mart sneakers. He was wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses, and his hair--  
  
Spike really hadn't looked at himself in the mirror when he'd finished dying his hair, and Xander was pretty sure why. With whatever he'd used to keep it slicked back washed out, his hair was drying into soft curls that would have had Xander's fingers itching to touch them, except that the color--well, it was bad. It was supposed to be black, Xander thought, but it was a mottled color--even kind of greenish in spots--thanks to the bleach.   
  
"Baseball cap, you think?" Spike said, holding it up, and Xander nodded emphatically.  
  
"But look on the bright side," he said. "Nobody who saw you before is going to recognize you. Possibly not even your brother."  
  
"That would be the idea," Spike drawled in what Xander guessed was supposed to be an American accent.  
  
"Okay, you don't have to do that when it's just me," he said. "I know you're the bank robber, remember? And speaking of which, I don't know why I have to pay for everything. As I seem to remember pointing out before, you're the one with the bag of money."  
  
"Serial numbers. Now get going," Spike said. "Just because they haven't found us yet doesn't mean they aren't going to."  
  
"You know what would help?" Xander said. "If I knew where we were going. We're hours away from Sunnydale, you threw my phone away, and if I'd been planning to make a break for it, I would have done it while you were dying your hair. A destination would not foil your cunning plans."  
  
"New Mexico," Spike said. "Place near the border called Antelope Wells."  
  
"Why not go all the way to Mexico? Isn't that where criminals on the lam go?"  
  
"We're going to Mexico. But we're stopping in Antelope Wells, because I'm supposed to meet my contact tomorrow morning, and I'd rather sleep on this side of the border."  
  
"Your contact? What, you're part of some international crime syndicate? Because I'm pretty sure hot-shot criminals don't plan to use their kid brothers as getaway drivers."  
  
Spike shrugged. "Bloke I knew from prison," he said. "Said he'd set me up, give me a new ID, a place to hide out for a bit."  
  
"You were in  _prison_?" Xander wasn't sure why he was so surprised, considering that Spike had just robbed a bank.  
  
But Spike shrugged, looking out the window, and mumbled something that sounded like "juvie."  
  
Oh, God. Trust him to not even be able to get taken hostage by anything better than a fourth-rate criminal. But there was something more important to worry about. "Wait. You said we're going to Mexico?"  
  
Spike nodded. "That's right. Once I meet up with Clem, you're free to go."  
  
Clem. His less-than-professional kidnapper was trusting his future to someone named  _Clem._  This was so not going to end well. "I guess I don't have a choice," Xander said, "but if you expect me to hang out overnight at a strip club, I'm telling you, you're going to have to shoot me. I've seen that movie, and it did  _not_  go well."  
  
Spike rolled his eyes. "You do know that in the real world, strippers don't actually turn into vampires when the sun goes down."  
  
"I'm from Sunnydale. All I know about strip clubs is what I see in the movies." Also, he wasn't sure why it was so surprising that Spike had seen  _From Dusk Till Dawn._  It was kind of an old movie, after all, and it wasn't like Spike had been living in a hole.  
  
Reform school, maybe, but not a hole.  
  
But that led him to another thought. "Hey, if this is  _From Dusk Till Dawn,_  are you Seth or Richie? Because--well, you're no George Clooney, not in that hat, but it's a lot better than if you were Quentin Tarantino." And he couldn't believe he'd just asked a question  _that_  dorky.  
  
Well, he could believe that a lot faster than he could believe that Spike seemed to be giving him a serious answer. "Clooney," he said. "He's a wanker, but it's better than ending up dead." Then he grinned at Xander, a sharp quick grin that reminded Xander once again that this guy really was bad news. "Guess that makes you Juliette Lewis," he said.  
  
The scary thing was, Xander found that a little comforting. At least Juliette Lewis had made it out alive.  
  


***

  
  
Somewhere in Arizona, after Xander had stopped expecting the police to ever find them, he heard a siren and saw the flashing lights of a police car in his rear view mirror. Weirdly enough, his first thought wasn't "Thank God"; it was "Oh, shit, they're onto us."  
  
"Keep cool," Spike said. "We're just two blokes on a road trip." As Xander pulled over to the side of the road, he rested his feet on the duffel bag--now fully zipped--and adjusted the hem of his shirt to completely cover the gun still tucked into his waistband.  
  
"Two  _guys_ ," Xander said without thinking. "Americans don't say 'blokes'."  
  
And then a guy in an Arizona Highway Patrol uniform was swaggering up to the car, and Xander rolled the window down, handing over his license before the guy even asked. "You know how fast you were going, son?"  
  
"Uh, no, sir," Xander said, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd been speeding. It was a traffic stop, that was all.  
  
"Ninety. In a seventy-five mile an hour zone."  
  
"Oh, crap," Xander said, looking up at the cop with an apologetic smile. "I'm, um, really sorry. I guess I wasn't paying close enough attention."  _What with being held hostage_ , he thought, but for some reason, didn't say out loud.  
  
"Guess you weren't," the guy agreed. "I'm going to run your license. Wait here." He walked off, back to his car, and Xander turned to look at Spike.  
  
"Do I keep driving?"  
  
"What, are you stupid?" Spike said. "You wait here, you take your traffic ticket, and you drive five miles under the speed limit until we're out of Arizona."  
  
"But he's a cop."  
  
Spike looked at him for a long second, one eyebrow raised, and Xander thought he was about to say something. Then he shrugged. "Just get the ticket. Either he'll find out who we are when he runs your license, or he won't. Either way, running won't do any good."  
  
"Okay." Xander fidgeted in the seat, then made himself stop in case it made the cop suspicious. Then he let himself start again, because it was perfectly reasonable to be fidgety and nervous when you got pulled over for speeding, if you were a decent, law-abiding citizen who'd never had a ticket in his life, which was what he was. It was also perfectly reasonable to be fidgety if you were  _being held hostage_ , which he really needed to get better about remembering. It was kind of hard, what with Spike not being particularly scary. He hadn't even threatened to shoot Xander.  
  
Also, there was the hotness factor, although the bad dye job and the ugly shirt--Xander considered himself a connoisseur of the Hawaiian shirt, and that? That was definitely a bad one--were helping with that. Which was good, since the last thing Xander needed as a lingering aftereffect of this experience was a taste for men with prison records.  
  
Well, the last thing he needed was a bullet in his brain, but a thing for criminals was right up there on the list.  
  
It seemed like forever before the cop came back, handing Xander his driver's license, his insurance card, and a ticket. "You can pay that by mail," he said. "And pay more attention from now on."  
  
"Um," Xander said, still kind of surprised that the siren hadn't gone back on and the cop hadn't told Spike to come out with his hands up. They were going to get away with it. "Yes, sir. Thanks." He took the ticket and shoved it under the sun visor, not even wanting to know how much  _that_  was going to cost him. He hadn't realized being a getaway driver was so expensive. He realized, as he pulled back onto the road, going a careful sixty-eight miles an hour, that his hands were shaking.  
  
Neither of them said anything until the police car had passed them and disappeared from view; then Spike said, laughing, "Bloody hell. They didn't have a clue."  
  
Xander looked over at him, grinning. "How's that for keeping my cool?"  
  
Spike snorted in disbelief. "You were about to wet yourself," he said. "I wouldn't call that cool."  
  
"I was nervous about the speeding ticket!" he said. "I've never gotten one before."  
  
"You haven't?" Spike looked at him, shaking his head. "Well, aren't you just a regular little angel." He smirked at Xander. "So how come you didn't tell the nice policeman you were in trouble, choir boy?"  
  
That was actually a really good question, now that Spike mentioned it. It would have been the smart thing to do. In fact, speeding  _on purpose_  so he'd get pulled over would have been the smart thing to do. Spike's hands hadn't been anywhere near the gun. Xander could have pleaded for help before Spike could do anything, and he wouldn't shoot Xander right in front of a police officer. Probably.  
  
"I was afraid you'd shoot me," Xander said, and wow, he sucked at lying, because all that got him was another smirk from Spike.  
  
"Think I'd walk around with a loaded gun so close to my pride and joy?" Spike pulled the gun out of his waistband, grinning. "It's not even real; it's plastic."  
  
"You robbed a bank with a plastic gun?"  
  
"I don't like killing people," he said, and that would have been comforting if he hadn't finished the sentence with, "by accident."  
  
He wondered whether Spike had ever killed anyone on purpose, but decided that just in case the answer was "yes," he wasn't going to ask.  
  
"So," said Spike, "now you know my secret. Here's your chance to get away." He grinned. "I mean, I could probably take you--" Xander would be prepared to bet that, from the way Spike's eyes flicked over him as he said it, Spike was fully aware of the multiple possible interpretations of the word "take," and had, in fact, chosen it intentionally-- "but if you got a good running start, you might just get away."  
  
Xander had to admit that Spike was right. The problem was, he didn't seem to be doing anything about it, and not only didn't he know why, he also didn't want to dig too deeply into the possible reasons.  
  
But lucky for him, he had Spike for that. "But you're not going to, are you?" He grinned at Xander, leaning back against the seat and putting his feet up on the dashboard. "You're going to keep driving this car all the way to Mexico, and you know why?"  
  
He sighed. "I'm guessing you're just dying to tell me," he said, trying to sound sarcastic.  
  
"Because you're getting off on this." Xander must have looked shocked--or, at least, he hoped the look was shock, and not agreement--because Spike said, "Not literally." He looked Xander over again. "Well, maybe not literally. But you've worked out that this is so much better than your sad, boring little life that you're wishing you'd had the bollocks to do something like this before now."  
  
"Hate to break it to you, Freud," Xander said, "but the life of crime? Not for me."  
  
"You telling me you prefer the life of telly and Hungry-Man dinners?"  
  
 _Yes_ , Xander wanted to say. He wanted to be on his couch right now, watching crappy television and eating potato chips and maybe taking a nap. He didn't want to be somewhere in freaking  _Arizona_  with a bank robber who kept insulting him and didn't even have a real gun.  
  
"I'm telling you I'm not all about the felonies," he said. Then, horrified, he heard himself say, "But other than that? You're not wrong."

***


	2. Chapter 2

If he hadn't known what was going on, he'd say he was enjoying himself. Spike had had him swing through a drive-through a little while back--that "serial numbers" excuse for why Spike, with his feet on a big bag stuffed full of money, couldn't pay for anything was getting old--and a burger and a few fries had gone a fair way toward making him feel a lot more like his usual self.  
  
Come to think of it, he didn't know what he was usually like when he was being kidnapped and driven to Mexico. "You know," Xander said, "you could drive, and that would not be a problem as far as I'm concerned."  
  
Spike grinned. "Easier for me to keep an eye on you this way." Which was bullshit, because not two hours ago, they'd had that conversation Xander wished he could forget, the one where he'd admitted that except for the part where he was now an accomplice to a felony, he was having a good time. Xander was beginning to think that approximately half of what Spike said was bullshit. Given enough time, he thought he might even be able to pick out which half.  
  
But he figured that was a pretty clear answer to whether or not Spike was going to drive, and so he reached up to rub the back of his neck, trying to work some of the knots out of it. "You're taking this 'cooperative hostage' thing for granted, aren't you?"  
  
Shrugging, Spike said, "Figured you'd be used to that by now."  
  
"I haven't known you long enough to be used to you," he said.  
  
"Considering you let your friends use you as a taxi service for troubled teens..." Spike began.  
  
Xander glared at him. "It's not  _like_  that."  
  
"Of course it's not."  
  
He frowned. That was totally the kind of "of course it's not" that meant "of course it is, but I expected you to deny it." "It's not," he repeated. "Buffy's one of my best friends. I love her, and she's going through a lot of crap lately. I  _want_  to be there for her." Granted, he hadn't wanted to get up early on his day off, but he also wouldn't have been too happy with letting Buffy down. "She's helped me get through some stuff, too, you know. That's what  _friends_  do."  
  
"Well, when they see you on the news as a rescued hostage, maybe your friend'll be off the hook." Spike shrugged; Xander was pretty sure he didn't really care, but it was nice of him to have said that, anyway.  
  
He nodded. Getting back wasn't as wonderful a thought as he'd have expected it to be, but then again, if he didn't go back, he'd miss everyone. "So," he said, casting around for a subject change. "Mexico, huh."  
  
"That's the plan."  
  
"Forever?"  
  
"I'm not changing my mind and taking you home now, if that's what you mean."  
  
"It's not. I mean, are you staying in Mexico forever?"  
  
Another shrug. "Might. No reason to come back, and the money'll last a lot longer there."  
  
Xander couldn't really imagine not having any reason to ever want to come back home, to be that cool about the prospect of never being  _able_  to come home again. "What about your brother?"  
  
That wasn't Spike's usual disgusted look. That was a  _real_  glare. "Connor's meant to be staying out of trouble, idiot. Having me around's not going to help that."  
  
He couldn't really think of a way to argue with that; it was probably true. Having Spike around certainly wasn't doing much for Xander's future as a respectable citizen, after all, and Xander hadn't even known him for twelve hours yet.   
  
Granted, some of that could be put down to the pretty much unavoidable fact that where Spike was concerned, Xander was thinking with his dick and not his brain. Not that he wanted Spike to know that, at least not until Xander had done some subtle hinting around first.  
  
"Besides," Spike said, "in Mexico, there's no chance of running into--" He broke off, shaking his head and turning to stare out the window.  
  
"Who?" Xander said, because they'd already clearly established that he had no common sense whatsoever.  
  
"Nobody," he said, still looking out the window.  
  
Xander was going to give it a count of ten before he asked another question, but he didn't get past six when Spike said, "Her name's Drusilla."  
  
Dammit. Of course it was a girl. Of course Mr. Sexy and Dangerous Bank Robber Guy had some tragic history where a gorgeous woman broke his heart. "What happened?"  
  
"What do you think happened?" Spike demanded. "She left me. Went back to--it doesn't matter who."  
  
Xander decided not to say anything. Spike was doing well enough volunteering information if Xander just sat back and gave him some time. He tried to put a helpful, listening expression on his face and then focused all his attention on the road.  
  
Well, some of his attention, anyway. The rest of it was focused on trying to watch Spike out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to crack, because Xander might have been disappointed, but he was also curious. And besides, he figured, it wasn't like he'd actually had a chance of getting laid, but he did have a chance of hearing what might be an interesting story.  
  
"Bloody git," Spike muttered. "Waltzing back into town like he owned the place, thinking we'd both just--Well, at least he knows now  _I'm_  not dancing to his tune any more."  
  
Xander blinked for a second, because it sounded to him like whoever this Drusilla had gone back to had been expecting Spike to come back, too. "Wait, what?" He was aware that this conversation was located on the central plains of Not His Business-Land, but still, if you were going to tell a story, you had to expect people to want to be able to follow it.  
  
Spike shrugged. "Ancient history."  
  
"And, see, if  _actual_  ancient history featured desperate criminals sitting in my car hinting at hot bisexual sexcapades, I wouldn't have had to go to summer school after ninth grade."  
  
"It was no big--" Spike broke off, smirking. That was a definite evil smirk. "Well, no. I'll grant the pouf that. It definitely was."  
  
Xander rolled his eyes. At least he did still have enough instinct for self-preservation to not point out any hypocrisy in what Spike had just said. Especially since Spike was slouched down in the seat, looking out the window again, the slump of his shoulders the only thing that really gave away that he wasn't as unconcerned as he tried to sound.  _Do not poke the sulking felon_ , he reminded himself. "Are you--"  
  
"If the next word out of your mouth is 'okay,'" Spike warned, "I'll--"  
  
"What?" Xander said, deciding he could probably risk a smirk of his own. After all, Spike wasn't looking at him. "Shoot me with your plastic gun?"  
  
"Won't be so pleased with yourself if I decide not to let you go in Mexico after all, now will you?"  
  
Spike was right; even if Xander was pretty sure that wasn't a death threat, he didn't want to be a hostage forever, either. On the other hand, there might be something to be said for an extended vacation in Mexico. Especially one with a guy who'd just basically admitted that men were not out of his personal naked picture. "Try me," he said, because he was having trouble remembering why he was supposed to be afraid of Spike.  
  
He was having trouble remembering his name, too, because Spike turned back, grinning wickedly and saying, "I might have to do that," and Xander's brain was so not getting the recommended daily allowance of oxygen any more.  
  


***

  
  
"I don't get it," Xander said. "Why don't we just cross the border tonight?" While it was late, it wasn't so late that Xander couldn't drive another hour. And really, the sooner he was let go, the better, because then he could get back home and back to his normal life, the one that didn't involve lusting after wanted criminals.  
  
Not  _very_  wanted criminals, apparently, since they hadn't had a lot of trouble with the police. From what they'd heard on the radio before they'd left California and the news reports stopped caring, the police thought Spike was heading to Tijuana, and so they were looking in southern California, not in New Mexico. There hadn't even been any mention of a hostage; if Spike let him go, he could just drive back to California with no one the wiser.  
  
Spike shrugged. "We'll have plenty of time to get there in the morning," he said. "And I've  _been_  across the border right around here; if I have to hide out somewhere for the night, I'll take my chances with Antelope Wells."  
  
"And a fine chance it is, too," Xander said, looking at the front of the motel Spike had made him stop at. He'd never actually seen a motel  _advertise_  hourly rates before, or have a small cardboard sign in the window that proclaimed "sheets changed after every customer!" "We're going to get an STD from the  _sheets_."  
  
"Stop moaning," Spike said, "and go get us a room." Xander had thought that meant Spike was staying in the car, but when Xander got out, Spike did too, following him inside.  
  
"A double, one night," Xander said, trying not to stare at the desk clerk's comb-over. Three strands of hair weren't going to fool anybody.  
  
"No doubles," the guy said. "One bed to a room. Twenty-one bucks for a full, twenty-five for a queen. That's tax included," he added helpfully. "Two rooms?"  
  
Xander turned to glance at Spike. Spike ignored him, though, grinning at the clerk. Even under the stupid hat and the funny-colored hair, Spike's grin was--well, it was dangerous for  _Xander_ , at least, although the desk clerk didn't seem susceptible. "One bed's all we need." Then he turned back to Xander, still grinning. "Isn't that right, pet?" He reached out, running his fingers lightly along Xander's forearm, and despite himself, Xander shivered. "But make it a big one. I want plenty of room to maneuver, if you know what I mean."  
  
What the  _hell_? Xander managed a nod, forking over twenty-five bucks, signing the register as "Bob Smith" because there were already three John Smiths registered, and receiving a key on a plastic keychain and a fairly disgusted glare. Once they were outside and looking for room 17, though, he decided that he really wanted an answer. "What the hell was that back there?" he demanded. "I mean, not that I'm freaking out over the one bed, but--with the nicknames and the touching and the--just, what the hell?"  
  
"Cover story," Spike said. "Even if someone comes looking for us, that guy's not going to remember what we looked like, where our car was from, or anything else. He's going to remember there were a couple of queers who couldn't keep their hands off each other, and not even bother mentioning us to the police."  
  
Xander shrugged. Spike might have a point. He didn't really like the point--Sunnydale was pretty liberal and relaxed, and he wasn't thrilled about being somewhere that wasn't--but still, he couldn't argue that there might be one there.  
  
Besides, he was busy trying to stop thinking about the one bed and what Spike might be able to do with "room to maneuver." It was a ruse, he reminded himself. The big bad bank robber hadn't actually been flirting with him, had, in fact, been ignoring most of Xander's own attempts at flirting. This wouldn't be the first time Xander had read too much into things.  
  
He'd get some sleep. They'd cross into Mexico tomorrow, and then Spike would let him go. And  _then_  things would get back to normal. He'd talk to Dawn's history teacher, make sure he understood it wasn't Dawn's fault she'd been late to school, and hopefully, everything would be okay. He'd start at the new site on Monday morning, and this would just be a bizarre little interlude in a definitely  _not_  bizarre life.  
  
It was late, and he was tired, and if Spike kept his word and let him go, he'd have a long drive ahead of him tomorrow. Getting some sleep would be a good plan. He kicked his shoes off once they were inside the room--regretting it when he realized the carpet felt slightly sticky in places--and flopped on the bed, covering his head with a pillow.  
  
The bed shifted and settled next to him; Xander didn't move, figuring Spike wanted to get some sleep as well, but then he felt the pillow being tugged out of his grip. He looked up to see Spike looking back at him, one eyebrow--the one with the scar--quirked upward. "Forgetting something?"  
  
Xander shrugged. "No, but I don't have a toothbrush, so I'll have to suffer."  
  
"I seem to recall something about giving you a try," Spike said, his voice low and rough, and Xander's dick twitched in his jeans. That definitely  _sounded_ like a come-on.  
  
He grinned. "We could play 'desperate bank robber and innocent hostage,'" he suggested.  
  
"We could," Spike said, in that same voice. He was holding a cigarette--when wasn't he, Xander wondered--and he reached over, stubbing it out in the cheap plastic ashtray before coming back to loom over Xander. For a fairly compactly-built guy, Spike was a natural loomer. "Or we could skip the stupid games and get right to the point where I fuck you into the mattress."  
  
Xander gulped. Words seemed to be failing him at the moment; he decided a couple of enthusiastic nods would do just as well. Then he realized he'd been nodding long enough to look like a bobble-head doll, and made himself stop. "I, uh," he said, swallowing again. "I could definitely be in favor of that."  
  
"Good," Spike said, and then he was kneeling astride Xander, his hands resting on Xander's shoulders as he leaned down to kiss him, licking his way into Xander's mouth. Xander took about three millionths of a second to consider whether this was really a good idea, and then decided that, given the way Spike was kissing him--hot and deep and dirty--it so was. He reached up and pulled that ridiculous cap off Spike's head, throwing it on the ground so he could run his hands through Spike's hair.  
  
Spike shifted his weight, and Xander groaned, shifting again to get more pressure against his rapidly-hardening dick. He let his hand drop away from Spike's hair, settling at his waist. Spike leaned down to kiss him again, and Xander felt the fabric of Spike's shirt brush against his fingers, then slid his hand a few inches upward, palm against Spike's skin. "Get this stupid shirt off," Xander said, wanting more skin, wanting to touch and lick and suck every inch of Spike--some more than others, he had to admit, but seriously, this was his only chance to have random and badly-thought-out sex with a hardened criminal, and he apparently wanted to make the most of it.  
  
The Hawaiian shirt was loose enough on Spike that he could pull it up and over his head without unbuttoning it, and then Spike's chest was bare. Apparently, the bank-robbing lifestyle didn't leave a lot of time for tanning, because Spike was pale--not fish-belly white, but pale and smooth and--Xander discovered when he managed to squirm out from under Spike, managed to sit up in a position that was probably going to make his back hate him tomorrow, all so he could bite and suck at the skin covering Spike's collarbone--easy to mark. Which, to be honest, worked okay for Xander.  
  
It also worked okay for him when Spike pushed him back down onto the bed, settling on top of him again, this time lying down, their bodies pressed together, thigh and shoulder and hip and oh, God, Spike's dick pressed against him, just as hard as his own. Xander arched against him, hips lifting off the bed in a quest for friction, and Spike chuckled. "Well, aren't you the eager one," he said, and Xander thought he ought to be a little embarrassed about lying here grinding against the guy who'd  _kidnapped_  him this morning, but Spike was hot and danger was apparently a turn-on and Xander's dick hadn't had anyone to play with in way too long.  
  
"And aren't you Captain Obvious," Xander muttered, his mouth against Spike's ear, and Spike laughed again. But then Spike rolled off Xander, sitting up with his legs hanging over the side of the bed, and Xander was left wondering what the hell had just gone wrong.  
  
"Cocktease," he muttered, because at this point, he wasn't even good at pretending he was afraid of Spike.  
  
Spike turned back to look at Xander with a very self-satisfied grin. "I'm guessing you didn't come prepared for this," he said, and Xander's brain was still functioning slowly enough that it took Spike adding, "Condoms? Lube?" for him to get what Spike was talking about.  
  
Fucking him, that was what Spike was talking about, and Xander was in favor of that. "Yeah," he murmured contentedly, rubbing his erection through his jeans, and then realized that Spike had asked a question, not just made a suggestion. "I mean, uh, no. I don't have any," he said.  
  
"Right, then," Spike said. "There's a gas station across the street; they'll probably have something." He pulled on his shirt again, and then held out his hand. Xander groaned, digging out his wallet and dropping some cash into Spike's palm. Spike grinned, tucking the money in his pocket and putting on his shoes. Seriously, if Spike got away with this, Xander was going to demand compensation. He'd play it safe, not spend the money all at once or anywhere they'd be likely to remember him, but he definitely deserved something after bankrolling this whole escape attempt.  
  
Then again, he was about to get fucked, just as soon as Spike came back from the quickie-mart, and that went a long way toward making up for some financial inconvenience.  
  
While Spike was gone, Xander decided to get a head start on him, stripping off his clothes and lying back down on the bed. He wrapped his hand loosely around his dick, stroking it lazily, imagining they were Spike's fingers on him. It occurred to him, briefly, that clearly, Spike wasn't even slightly worried that Xander would call for help or try to escape; he wouldn't have left Xander alone if he had.  
  
Then again, Xander had to admit that Spike had a good reason to believe he wasn't going anywhere tonight; he'd have to be an idiot to try to get away  _now_.  
  
He didn't hear the door open, but he did hear it close, and heard the hiss of Spike's breath. "Well, look at you," Spike murmured, and Xander's eyes opened; he could feel his face getting hot from embarrassment, until he realized that Spike was watching him with a predatory grin. "It looks like I got back here just in time."  
  
He came back over toward the bed, shedding his clothes along the way. Xander watched, biting his lip at the sight of the marks he'd left on Spike's chest, and then swallowing hard when Spike peeled off the baggy pants he'd bought that day and reminded Xander--who'd tried hard not to notice at the time--that he wasn't wearing anything underneath them. Spike was hard, his dick curving up toward his stomach, and Xander licked his lips, suddenly wanting to taste.  
  
"Going to let me fuck you?" Spike asked, and Xander nodded quickly.  
  
"Not yet, though," he said, and Spike frowned. The frown faded, though, when Xander got up from the bed, dropping to his knees in front of him. "I want this, first," he said, and Spike grinned.  
  
"Just let me--" he began, and then apparently decided he could either talk or get the condom on himself, and only one of them led to having his dick in Xander's mouth within the next sixty seconds. Xander waited as patiently as he could, and then, when Spike finally rolled the condom down over his erection, he reached up, holding on to Spike's hip with one hand and curling his fingers around the base of Spike's dick. He took the head into his mouth, tongue working against the underside, and Spike groaned.  
  
Xander grinned to himself, his hand moving on Spike's shaft as he sucked. He tried to imagine away the taste and feel of latex, to imagine that the only thing against his tongue was Spike, warm and heavy. Spike's hands closed on his shoulders, holding him steady, and Xander sucked harder.  
  
Spike groaned again, his hips starting to move. Xander made himself relax, letting Spike fuck his mouth, his dick throbbing at the thought that soon--though maybe not soon enough--Spike would be fucking his ass instead.  
  
 _Very_  soon, though, because Spike was pulling his hair, tugging him away with a wet popping sound. "On the bed," he said, and Xander scrambled up there despite the sudden wobbliness of his knees. He hadn't let himself imagine this, hadn't wanted his fantasy to get in the way of reality, but the reality was, so far, not disappointing. Not even when Spike didn't warm the lube in his hands, first, and Xander gasped at the cold, making Spike chuckle.  
  
"Bastard," Xander muttered. Spike's reply was to smack his ass lightly, and Xander grinned to himself. Oh yeah. No disappointment at all. Definitely not when Spike pushed inside him, the slow burn of Spike's dick stretching him making Xander groan.  
  
"All right?" Spike said, and Xander nodded.  
  
"Keep going," he said, and Spike started to move. Xander made himself breathe deeply, waiting for the moment when the discomfort turned to pleasure, and Xander began to move his hips, pushing back to meet Spike's thrusts. One of Spike's hands was on Xander's hip, holding him steady; the other slid around Xander's body to wrap around his erection. "Fuck," Xander groaned.  
  
Spike laughed. "That's the idea," he said, his voice sounding breathless and strained as he thrust deep into Xander. Xander moaned, the movement of his hips drawing Spike deep inside him, then letting him thrust into Spike's fist. Spike wasn't holding back, pounding into him relentlessly, fucking him hard enough that Xander half-dreaded the morning, when he'd have to get into the car and sit for hours. Only halfway, though, because the soreness would remind him of this, of being fucked until he was breathless, his body shaking with pleasure as he thrust into Spike's hand again and came, hard and hot and sticky, on Spike's hand and his stomach and the bed.  
  
Xander's arms were trembling from the strain of holding himself up, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse into a boneless, well-fucked heap, but Spike was still inside him, and Xander didn't want to miss a second of that. Spike had let go of his softening dick, and now both hands were clutching at Xander's hips, using them as leverage to thrust deeper, faster. Spike was talking--isolated words and groans and mutters, but all of it encouraging, all of it urging Xander to push back again and again, until Spike stilled, then cried out as he thrust in one last time and came.  
  
When Spike finally pulled out, Xander felt cold, although that was probably just the result of the hyperactive air-conditioning. He slumped down on the bed, waiting for Spike to come back from getting rid of the condom and lie down next to him. Xander curled closer, looking for body heat, and mumbled, "'m going to Mexico with you."  
  
Once the words were out, Xander realized his mistake, that he'd presumed too much, read too much into a one-night stand. But Spike only pressed a kiss on Xander's neck and said, "We'll see about that in the morning."  
  


***

  
  
It felt like Xander had barely fallen asleep when Spike was shaking him by the shoulder. "Come on," he said, when Xander blinked up at him groggily. "Rise and shine; we've got a big day ahead of us."  
  
Xander stayed where he was for a minute; he was warm and comfortable under the covers, and maybe if he stayed put, he could convince Spike to come and join him. From the sunlight feebly coming in through the window, it was still early; they didn't have to get on the road just yet. He didn't have to find out whether Spike had taken him seriously last night or not, just yet.  
  
Come to think of it, he wasn't even ready to find out if he'd  _wanted_  Spike to take him seriously, if he was really ready to throw his whole life away and become a criminal, living in Mexico with a guy he'd just met yesterday. When you got right down to it, there was a good chance he'd gone insane somewhere along the road to New Mexico.  
  
Spike wasn't giving him a chance to lie there and think it through, though; he pulled the blankets back and grabbed Xander's arm, tugging him until he was sitting upright. For a fairly small guy, Spike was a lot stronger than Xander would have expected. "In the shower," he said, pulling on Xander's arm again. "No time to lose."  
  
Shower. Okay, yeah, shower. He could do that. And when he remembered yesterday, with the sweat and the dust from the road and the extremely enthusiastic sex, he really  _wanted_  to do that. "I will sell my soul to you," he mumbled as he wandered vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, "if there's coffee when I come out."  
  
"Hurry up," Spike said, which didn't give Xander a lot of hope for the coffee. But he got in the shower anyway; when he couldn't find a washcloth, he did his best to get the hard little bar of soap to lather up in his hands, and washed himself off that way. Not great, he thought, but at least he felt a little better. The motel didn't provide shampoo, so he washed his hair with the soap, deciding that this was reasonable preparation for his future career as a Mexican  _bandito_.  
  
Spike was dressed--his clothes from yesterday again, Xander noticed, and not the stuff he'd bought as a disguise, though his shower had washed out some of the color from his hair, leaving it even more mottled. Still, the jeans and boots got Xander's approval, even if the way Spike shoved his clothes at him and ordered him to get dressed didn't.  
  
Xander was just buttoning his jeans when he heard the sirens. "Spike--"  
  
"Don't worry about it," Spike said. "Somebody probably got caught speeding." He tossed Xander his shirt, and Xander pulled it over his head.  
  
That was when he heard a voice outside, amplified by a bullhorn. "This is the New Mexico State Police. We have the motel surrounded."  
  
"Not even the FBI?" Spike muttered, which was completely  _not_  the response Xander was expecting.  
  
"Send your hostage out," the voice continued. "We don't want anyone to get hurt."  
  
"How did they even find us?" Xander grabbed Spike's arm. "And what are we going to do?" It wasn't like he had any experience with these things; he wasn't really sure Spike did, either, but he had a better chance than Xander, at least, of knowing.   
  
Spike reached out, grabbing Xander's shirt and pulling him closer for a hard, fast kiss. "You're going out there," he said. "Don't be an idiot." Just then, the phone rang, and Spike picked it up. He listened for a second and said, "He's not hurt. He's coming out now."  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," Xander argued, but Spike shoved him toward the door.  
  
"Go," he said. "And keep your hands up until they tell you to put them down." When Xander hesitated, Spike snapped, "Get moving!" and for a second, Xander remembered why he'd thought Spike was scary, yesterday morning. He opened the door carefully, putting his hands above his head before he set foot outside.  
  
The next several minutes were a blur; he was pulled out of the way by a police officer and searched for weapons before he was allowed to put his hands down, and then, when they were satisfied that he wasn't any kind of trap, he was handed over to a tired-looking woman who introduced herself as Maria Herrera, Victim Advocate.   
  
Xander only halfway listened to her, too intent on trying to see what was happening across the parking lot, at the motel, but she gave him a bottle of water and a blanket and stood with him while he watched the cops pushing a handcuffed Spike into the back of a police car. He shuddered, and she said, gently, "It's all right, Mr. Harris. You're safe now."  
  
 _I was safe before,_  Xander thought;  _I was safe with Spike._  He hadn't known just how safe, last night, hadn't realized that Spike would turn himself in for Xander's sake. But that was what he'd done, Xander was sure of it; turned himself in to keep Xander from throwing his life away in Mexico. Before he could say anything to Officer Herrera, though, he realized that was probably what Spike meant about not being an idiot, and he just nodded, silently, and watched the police car vanish into the distance.  
  


***

  
  
**Epilogue**  
  
"Should have known it was you," Spike said, leaning back a little in his chair. "They told me before that you were trying to get permission to visit." Nobody but family had been allowed to visit at first, until--they'd explained it to Xander, but it had all been jargon to him, stuff about classification and security levels and intake processing. He'd gotten the key point of the message loud and clear, though: they weren't going to let him in.  
  
But now Spike was sitting in a hard plastic chair, like the kind Xander remembered from his high school cafeteria, behind a table that looked equally cafeteria-like. There were rows of tables filling the room, and at each one, an orange-jumpsuited inmate sat on one side, with one or more visitors at the other. Xander tried to remember all the instructions he'd been given: don't try to pass anything to Spike. Don't reach across the table. Don't get up until he was ready to leave, and then go straight to the door.  
  
And then he looked over at Spike, who was still smirking at him like he'd been expecting this all along, and the only thing Xander could remember was the way Spike had kissed him before he sent him out the door. "Yeah, well," Xander said, sitting down, "Typical guy, getting arrested so you don't have to call me." He grinned. "So I tracked you down. I was going to come to your trial, but--" There hadn't been one; Xander had read in the paper--buried on page eight--that Spike had pleaded guilty in return for a reduced sentence. It was weird that he'd learned Spike's real name from the newspaper, but what about this hadn't been weird?  
  
Spike shrugged. "I'm not hard to find, these days."  
  
"No." Xander tried to think of something to say. "Um. Dawn--the friend I was supposed to pick up, that day? Everything worked out okay. I talked to her history teacher, showed him the story in the paper about my harrowing ordeal, and he just told her to be on time from now on." Spike nodded, and Xander wondered how conversation could have been so much easier when he'd thought Spike was about thirty seconds away from shooting him. "You know," Xander said, "you're so not George Clooney. Seth Gecko would never have turned himself in."  
  
"Tarantino got himself killed, so I think I still come out ahead. Besides, I'm better looking than Clooney."  
  
Xander wasn't going to argue with that, but he wasn't exactly going to confirm Spike's opinion of himself, either. Especially not sitting in the middle of the visiting room at the prison. They lapsed into awkward silence for a minute, until Spike, frowning, said, "If you're going to say anything about  _waiting for me_ , or any bloody stupid idea like that--"  
  
"God, no!" Xander said, grinning. "You're going to be in here a long time, and a guy has needs." Spike grinned back at him at that, and Xander felt a little more at ease. "I'm not going to wait. I'm going to visit, though, if that's okay with you. And maybe write."  
  
Spike nodded. "Wouldn't say no to that."  
  
"And when you get out, if we're both still interested, then we'll see. And if we're not..." He shrugged. "A guy getting out of jail could probably use a friend."  
  
"You know," Spike said, "speaking of not living up to Hollywood, Juliette Lewis never came back."  
  
Xander rolled his eyes, though he silently thanked Spike for steering the conversation away from the disturbingly heartwarming trend it had seemed to be taking. "You don't know what happened after the movie ended."  
  
"Clooney sent her home and never saw her again."  
  
"Is that what you want? Because seriously, I could go. My friends think I'm nuts for visiting you, anyway."  
  
There was a long silence before Spike said, "Sod Hollywood. Juliette Lewis was playing an idiot," and Xander grinned in relief.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://mireille719.tumblr.com)


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